


His Thanksgiving

by nothingeverlost



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), The Tournament (2009)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingeverlost/pseuds/nothingeverlost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s Thanksgiving.  I know that doesn’t mean anything here but I celebrated it in Maine, and it’s just a day to eat a special meal and be thankful."</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Thanksgiving

**Author's Note:**

> Triggers: mention of alcoholism and though there’s no smut there is mention of a priest being attracted to a woman.
> 
> Author’s note: My first more than drabble attempt at Macelle. Nervous and hoping it feels in character. Nothing spectacular, just finding my footing in this verse. Follows [this](http://nothingeverlost.tumblr.com/post/34727410292/trick-or-treat) Halloween ficlet (not really necessary for understanding this fic; all you need to know is that he kissed her on Halloween and they're next door neighbors.)

“You’ve been avoiding me, Father.” It was midafternoon when Joseph finally got home from services to find Belle sitting on his porch. There’d been two meetings that both needed his presence, and he couldn’t slight either one. If people were kind enough to volunteer their time the least he could do was listen; the sanctuary would be more than ready for the advent season thanks to Mrs. Epps and her firm hand.

“It’s the holiday season. It gets very busy, and the colder weather also means more people to visit. Sometimes the older members of the congregation are too arthritic to make it to service. I can’t let them go without communion.” It was all true, and yet none of it refuted her soft spoken accusation. He was avoiding her, not an easy thing to do when their front doors were less than a dozen metres apart. He’d been avoiding her for over two weeks now, since Halloween.

Since the kiss.

“We’re still friends, aren’t we?” She wasn’t quite looking at him, instead brushing something off her skirt, or pretending to.

“Of course we are.” Best friends, she’d said on Halloween. He hadn’t been called that since he was ten. That she had to ask made him ashamed. “I hope we are. That you still want to be friends.”

“Of course I do. You’ll stop avoiding me and come to dinner on Thursday?” Her eyes were a startling blue as she looked up at him. He had to wonder how long she’d been sitting on his step, watching for him.

“Thursday?” An invitation to dinner was a new thing. They’d shared impromptu meals and potlucks at the church, but never a planned meal. He could do it, though. He could forget about the kiss, and share a meal, and be her friend.

“It’s Thanksgiving. I know that doesn’t mean anything here but I celebrated it in Maine, and it’s just a day to eat a special meal and be thankful. It would be silly to cook a turkey just for me, and I don’t have any family to invite, but I have you. And friends are just a different kind of family.” She held onto the porch railing, supporting herself as she stood. “Please say you will?”

How could he possibly say no to that? “Yes.”

II

She answered the door on Thursday in a dress of dark blue, the full skirt covered by an apron. He was suddenly reminded of the television shows he loved as a child, with perfect parents and everyone happy by the end of the half hour, when important lessons like ‘cheating is wrong’ or ‘being a helpful neighbor’ had been learned. The shows that bore little resemblance to his life in the rough neighborhoods of Glasgow, Scotland. 

“Happy Thanksgiving,” she said as she ushered him into the house that smelled of citrus and garlic. The table was set with a delicate lace and fine china. Suddenly he wished that he’d thought to bring something with him. People usually brought some sort of hostess gift to things like this, didn’t they? He wasn’t sure; he didn’t usually go places unless it was under the auspices of the Church. Flowers might have been appropriate.

“Happy Thanksgiving to you, Belle.” He hung his coat neatly on the coat rack. It had hardly been necessary, with the short walk, but the cold air was bitter and the cotton of his shirt did little to block the wind. “Is there something I can help with?”

“Almost everything is ready, but you can open the wine, if you like.” She led him to the kitchen, a room no bigger than his own but obviously used more often. There were bright colored towels hanging from the oven handle, ceramic canisters of varying sizes on the counter, and an open recipe book in a book stand. His own refrigerator held little more than milk, condiments, and frozen meals either brought at the store or prepared by members of the congregation that took pity on him. Belle’s, he was sure, held quite a bit more.

On the counter near the book stand was a single bottle of wine and a corkscrew. His mouth went dry as he looked at it, and thought about how good it would taste, There wasn’t as much of a burn from it, not like the whiskey he used to drink, but it would at least calm his nerves. A single glass might not hurt anything.

“Father?” Belle’s voice called to him softly, startling him from his thoughts.

“Yes, the wine. Sorry. I can do that.” It was the first time he’d touched a bottle in over a year, except for the communion wine. There was something different about that. The blood of his Savior, he could tell himself when he stood in the sanctuary. Nothing other than that. The sparse sip he took during service barely contained alcohol at all. In the months after Lai Lai and the tournament he’d faked even that, his lips touching the chalice but not the wine. He’d prayed for forgiveness for the deception, and the weakness.

The weakness was still a temptation. It would be easy to pour two glasses of wine. Far easier than explaining that not only was he a man too tempted to keep his vows of chastity, but that he’d sought refuge in alcohol instead of in God. Alcohol had been, for a time far longer than he cared to admit, a false idol. He’d prayed for a drink and that was, in his mind, his lowest moment. It wasn’t until he’d been able to resist the demand to kill rather than be killed that he’d believed he could overcome the need for alcohol. It had meant something, that even in his refusal to kill he discovered that he still wanted to live.

“There’s glasses on the table, if you don’t mind pouring as well.” Belle seemed intent on something in the oven, so he carried the bottle to the table heaped with a bounty of food. He filled one glass, and stood at the other for an eternity before setting the bottle down. He filled his own glass with water; a full glass would make it easier to resist impulses. He’d never been good at that.

Belle didn’t say anything about the wine, as she carried the platter of carved turkey to the table. The look she gave him, though, was a thoughtful one; it felt as if she must know.

“Would you like to say the blessing, Father?” He was distracted for a moment by the fact that she was calling him ‘Father’ again. It had been Joseph, in the weeks before Halloween while they worked on planning games for the children to play and shopping together for decorations. The weeks before he’d ruined everything.

“Of course.” Bowing his head and clasping his hands together was almost automatic. This, at least, was one thing he knew how to do well. “Blessed Father, we thank you for your bounty, the food which nourishes the body, the friends that nourish our hearts and your word to nourish our souls. In this time of Thanksgiving we remember all it is we have to be grateful for, and all those that are less fortunate. We ask for your blessing on their lives as well as our own. Thank you, Father. Amen.”

“Amen,” she echoed, keeping her head down a moment longer. Joseph thought he say her lips moving, but he’d never dream of asking her about a moment that was so obviously a private one. And a moment it was; before he’d even taken a sip of his water she was asking if he prefered white meat or dark.

“Dark, please.” As a child he’d never gotten the choice; his aunt, uncle and their grown children had taken the white, and he’d been given the dark without it being an option. By the time there was a choice he was used to the taste, and found the lighter meat to be bland.

II

“I hope you don’t mind leftovers. I think we’ll both be eating turkey until well into December.” When dinner was over Belle started clearing the table. Joseph jumped up to help. Belle tried to protest, but he insisted.

“You cooked, at least let me wash the dishes. And leftovers are a treat, compared to anything I can manage on my own.” There was no reason to pretend otherwise; she’d already seen his kitchen and the type of food he generally called dinner.

“I could teach you, if you were interested. There’s some very easy recipes that would be far healthier than those frozen meals.” She frowned as she handed him the stopper for the drain, so he could fill the sink. “You need to eat better.”

“I think you’ll find I’m rather hopeless in that respect.” The cooking, he’d meant, but he supposed that it was true of eating properly as well. More often than not he forgot at least a meal a day. Sometimes two. He ate better than he had when he’d been drinking, though, and alcohol had been his main food group.

“If I could manage to teach Ashley how to make a casserole I’m not likely to fail with you.” She rested a hand lightly on his shoulder, and he had to repeat a mantra of ‘just friends’ to himself three times before looking at her. “Unless you’re really not interested?”

“I suppose I could try? If you’re sure it wouldn’t be wasting your time?” He’d gone almost fifty years without doing anything more impressive than toast and tea, so he didn’t see how a few lessons would change anything. Lessons from Belle meant time with Belle, however, and that was something he couldn’t object to no matter how muddled his emotions were. Besides, thinking of her as a teacher might help to clarify things for him; she was a friend and teacher, he was a priest and student. Growing up in Catholic school it had never occurred to him that it was possible to have a crush on a teacher; they were all nuns or priests.

“I think you underestimate yourself, Joseph, and what you’re capable of.” She smiled at him, and for a moment he believed that she was right. He could learn to cook. He could resist temptation. He could be a good priest and a best friend. “Now why don’t we let the dishes soak and take our pie into the living room? We can decide on your first lesson. Would next Friday work?”

“I’d like that.” The pie and the lesson on Friday. “Thank you, Belle.”

“Thank you, for making this Thanksgiving a good one. It was hard to miss having a family, with such good company.” She carried her wine and her slice of pie to the living room. He looked at the bottle once before picking up his water and the plate with his pie on it.

“Anytime you need me, Belle, I want you to know that I’m here for you.” It was a carefully made promise, and one he’d hate himself for if he ever broke it.

Belle turned, startling him. He was even more surprised when she brushed her lips against his cheek. “That means more to me than you could know.”

Not for the first time, Joseph wondered why a woman who was so kind and friendly was alone in a place like Middlesbrough. She should be surrounded by friends and family, not stuck with someone like him. Selfishly he was glad she was here; it was a sin he would confess and give penance for. “It’s what best friends do, isn’t it?”

“It is.” She smiled, and it was more eloquent than any Thanksgiving prayer he could utter, even if he spent hours on his knees. _‘A cheerful look brings joy to the heart, and good news gives health to the bones.’_ He understood the Proverb like he never had before. She was joy, and health, and his Thanksgiving.


End file.
